


Date Me, Wanker

by rae1112



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America and England pretend to date and it has mixed results, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Russia and England are best friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae1112/pseuds/rae1112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's ex is getting married, and Arthur won't have it. The obvious solution is to fake a relationship with a coworker. That won't get complicated at all...right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, my bloody fucking Christ on a ruddy bicycle! Ivan! _Ivan!_ ” Ivan Braginsky shut his eyes tightly, stopped his rapid typing, and turned to face the frantic man who worked two cubicles away on his right. 

Ivan was a simple man. He didn’t expect much from life. He’d arrived from Moscow, Russia three years ago, courted by several Fortune 500 companies because he had been considered a translation prodigy. In fact, at the tender age of 25, he already spoke ten languages _fluently_ , and was in the process of modestly picking up Swedish. Though there were several opportunities for him in Moscow, he’d nevertheless decided to pack his bags and begin working for a major corporation in Los Angeles, California, a city he’d always been curious about (especially because it never snowed and rarely ever rained - Ivan hated the cold). He’d watched enough movies about LA, and could practically imitate a West-Coast accent when he spoke English, so he figured he could move with minimum adjustment and live out his life in a nice sunny place doing what he loved most - translating. 

This idea of ‘minimum adjustment’ did not work out quite as he’d planned, however. For one, every single one of his coworkers was just a shade beyond ‘quirky’, which meant they got on Ivan’s nerves 24/7. He himself had developed a strange and “creepy” personality just to ward off the worst of them. He had never muttered to himself or grinned like an unhinged maniac in Russia, but he found himself doing it in America, so at least Feliks would stop telling him “Omigod, Ivan, you’re so cute despite your big-ass nose, I could eat you up!” 

Still, even his newfound personality didn’t ward off everybody. In fact, he somehow became close to several of the nutjobs who worked in the company, both in his department and others. For instance, he was friends with Natalyia from HR, Alfred from IT, Yong Soo from accounting, and several others who made it their business to disturb and annoy him every single day. But his best friend, and he had no idea how this happened, was Arthur Kirkland, a young man who worked alongside Ivan in the translation department, and who was the stereotypical stiff-upper-lip-Brit with a twist. 

Arthur was by all accounts intelligent, which is perhaps how he managed to trick Ivan into friendship in the first place. He had immigrated from Great Britain when he was only nineteen, and although he wasn’t quite as talented as Ivan when it came to languages, he was also considered ‘not too shabby’, especially when, at twenty-three years old, he had already mastered six languages himself. He also knew one language, Japanese, which Ivan did not, and had promised Ivan that they could practice conversational Japanese together, especially if Ivan helped Arthur get the hang of Russian. It sounded like a good deal, and Arthur had seemed like a pleasant young man with similar interests. As it turned out, he was anything but.

First of all, Arthur once had an on-again-off-again French boyfriend who he could barely tolerate, and together they used to make Ivan’s life hell. Ivan would somehow be pulled into the role of mediator in their fights, even though he’d known Arthur for a grand total of one month and probably wouldn’t be able to recognize Francis on the street without someone pointing him out. And yet, he got surprisingly invested in Arthur’s well-being, feeling genuine remorse for the Brit when Arthur cried over something Francis did. When Arthur finally ended it for good with Francis seven months ago, Ivan felt such jubilation that he let Arthur take him to a gay club to celebrate his newfound freedom. 

That led to the second thing Arthur had done to him - subconsciously turning him gay. Or at the very least, bisexual. Back in Russia, Ivan had not had a single gay thought, ever, in his whole life. True, Russia wasn’t exactly the type of environment to foster those feelings, and Ivan had never really dated many women either, but he nevertheless would have felt _something_ for men if he’d always been gay, right? Therefore, it had to be Arthur’s fault when Ivan found himself making out with a young Chinese ex-pat who’d been dancing with him all night.

At the very least, Arthur had taken responsibility for the obvious gay-ification of Ivan’s character. He had also helped Ivan navigate through the perilous world that was dating in America - Ivan was now seeing his young Chinese ex-pat, Yao Wang, though he had yet to make that news public to his family in Russia. He would cross that bridge when he got there. 

In any case, after their experience with Francis, Yao, and Ivan’s gay crisis, Ivan found himself very close with Arthur. Which meant that Ivan found out, unfortunately, a lot more about him. Including the fact that there was no “stiff-upper lip” on the Brit to speak of, and that he was, in fact, an insatiable drama queen. 

Which brung Ivan back to the present. 

“Look what I got in the fucking mail this morning!” Arthur cried, pushing Ivan’s cubicle-mate out of his way in his frenzy. Elizaveta glared at them both, and Ivan shot her an apologetic look. “Tell me I’m dreaming, or bloody insane!”

“Arthur, please, don’t make a scene,” Ivan said. He did stand up in an attempt to calm down his friend, “Whatever it is, it cannot be as bad as that time with that dog, hm? Как бы я знал, что ты так сильно любишь собаки?” 

Arthur waved his hand dismissively, though Elizaveta was now looking up at them in bewilderment, “Now is not the time for a Russian lesson. Look at the paper!”

So Ivan did. And he immediately understood why Arthur was freaking out.

“It’s...a wedding invitation,” he said slowly, looking at Arthur for confirmation, “For Francis’ wedding?” Arthur, already dangerously fuming, turned scarlet. 

Ivan understood his friend’s reaction. One of the main issues Arthur and Francis’ relationship faced was that the Brit was looking forward to getting married, while the Frenchman actively avoided talking about commitment. He’d always told Arthur that it wasn’t personal, and that he just couldn’t see himself ever settling down. And yet, not even a full year later…

“This must be joke!” Arthur bristled, snatching the wedding invitation back from Ivan. Elizaveta, finally understanding that their conversation would not end anytime soon, sighed loudly and stomped out of her own cubicle. “Six months ago he refused to buy a pet together, and now he’s getting married?! It’s mad! And why bother inviting me, if not to rub it in my face?”

Unfortunately, Ivan had to agree with Arthur. It was just like Francis to invite a recent ex to a wedding. “The adult thing would be to let it go Arthur…” Ivan said, knowing full well his friend would not.

“Well, old Artie here isn’t known for his adult behavior!” A familiar voice interrupted. Ivan cringed inwardly. Alfred Jones’ annoying teasing was _not_ what Arthur needed at the moment, “What are you guys yelling about, anyway? We could hear you two-floors down.”

“Bugger off, Jones,” Arthur hissed, looking furious. Ivan, who’d recently started becoming close with Alfred as well, knew that his American friend reveled in any chaos he could cause around the office. And he was looking very happy at the prospect of winding Arthur up even further. As hilarious as that could be sometimes, Ivan needed Arthur to calm down sometime soon, for Ivan’s own sanity at least. 

“Alfred, aren’t you needed in the CEO’s office?” Ivan questioned, interrupting whatever asinine thing Alfred was going to say next. Fortunately, it worked - Alfred’s face paled, and he fled from their office without another word. 

“Cheeky bugger...” Arthur said before turning back to Ivan, “You don’t know Francis like I do, Ivan. He won’t stop pestering me unless I go. And I refuse to lose. I need to show him that I’m better in every conceivable way, even if he’d getting married first.” 

“Maybe he’s getting married to someone unattractive, or old?” Ivan suggested, hoping to placate the irate Brit. 

Twenty minutes of Google-searching the second name printed on the invitation - Ludwig Beilschmidt - disproved that theory rather handily. 

“He’s beautiful…” Arthur said in awe, rather forgetting himself. Ivan punched his arm. 

Eventually, Ivan and Arthur’s sleuthing was interrupted by Elizaveta, who had grown tired of eviction from her own cubicle. She’d threatened Arthur rather effectively, and the Brit stomped back to his desk, while Ivan remained shame-faced at his desk, trying his best not to piss of his co-worker any further. He’d buy Elizaveta an apology sunflower tomorrow. Everyone loved apology sunflowers, right? 

The rest of his day passed by very slowly. Though he had a lot of work, he couldn’t concentrate on it, his attention being drawn to Arthur every twenty minutes on the dot. He wasn’t usually so distracted by his friend, but today was different. It seemed the wedding invitation had shaken Arthur up more fundamentally than the Brit had wanted to admit. He looked upset, and it was breaking Ivan’s heart a little bit. Arthur was always some variant of pissed off or unpleasant, but the unsure movements and slight shaking of his hands brought out a protective streak in Ivan he hadn’t felt for anyone in a while. When Alfred came back, looking to tease Arthur a bit more, Ivan quickly distracted the bespectacled man by offending America and its obesity rate (it was a sore subject for Alfred, Ivan had found out at a bar one night - one he didn’t normally exploit, but for Arthur’s sake, he made an exception). 

By the end of the work-day, Ivan had seen enough. He hurried after Arthur, who seemed to be frog-marching past the exit determinedly. 

“Arthur,” Ivan called, halting the Brit’s advance towards the elevator. He grabbed Arthur by the elbow. “Come to my house tonight, hm? Yao is out with relatives, we can talk together...about this, yes?” 

And that’s how, several hours later, he found himself on the carpeted floor of his bedroom, sharing a bottle of dusty rum with Arthur, and cursing Francis’ existence to holy hell. Loudly. 

“He is very - very, ugly? Stupid. Ugly man. In the heart.” Ivan’s English tended to fluctuate when he was drunk. Right now, it was in the ‘barely comprehensible’ stage. “Hair like horse, heart like goat! Disgusting.”

“Hmm,” Arthur replied to Ivan’s thought-out criticism, “Thas’ right, innit? Goat bastard.” 

“И еще!” Ivan said, now on a roll, “He smells like rose which has putrefied. Eyes like weasel. No, not weasel...how you say _выдра_? Small pony?”

“And yet, that small pony is getting married before I am,” Arthur said with a tone of finality. And with that, Ivan could not argue. “And to a gorgeous half-man, half-tank like Ludwig Beilschmidt. I didn’t know that was Francis’ type. I could have gone to the gym more!” 

“I think not, comrade,” Ivan said, closing his eyes. Arthur simply did not have the build or muscle mass to challenge Francis’ new fiance. Still, Arthur looked nice, in his own way. It upset Ivan to think that Arthur was negatively comparing himself to another man. “Anyway, you have dated since Francis as well, haven’t you?”

Arthur harrumphed. “If you count that ridiculous date with that Spanish lawyer, I suppose I have.” 

Ivan remembered that particular disaster, and wisely did not bring it up again. “My thought was...maybe you do not go alone? Take man, a _man_ , who make Bonnefoy feel like he should never let you go!”

Arthur snorted. “My, my, Ivan, you sound like a Nicholas Sparks novel,” Ivan squinted, clearly not getting the reference. “Nicholas Sparks? You know, the romance auth--you know what, nevermind. The point is, I doubt that’s what’ll happen.”

“Well, bring someone anyway, to save face,” Arthur glared at him, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the rum he started chugging, “Do not look at me like that! I am helping. Showing up alone is just pathetic.”

“But I _am_ alone,” Arthur whined, rather...pathetically.

“But he does not know this, yes?” Ivan’s accent was getting thicker, as was Arthur’s. They really should lay off the rum, though Ivan decided one more sip wouldn’t hurt. “You cannot get boyfriend quickly?” 

“Not quickly ‘nuff to invite him ter a ruddy wedding in a few weeks!” Ivan supposed that was a fair point. There was no quicker way to make a gay man in Los Angeles run away screaming than to invite him to a wedding. Arthur knew this quite well. However, perhaps he didn’t need to get a _real_ boyfriend…

“I could invite someone else though…” Arthur finally said, eyeing Ivan with more interest.

And Ivan decided to nip that thought right in the bud. “Definitely not going to happen, comrade,” he said confidently. It wasn’t hard to guess what Arthur was implying. It would royally piss Francis off if Arthur and Ivan started ‘dating’, and Arthur brought Ivan along as a ‘boyfriend’. However, though Ivan had never read a Nicholas Sparks novel, he’d read enough romance novels to know what happened when two friends ‘pretended’ to be dating at a wedding. And though he loved Arthur, he had no wish to fall in love with him. Ever. 

However, the idea of a pretend date had some merit. 

“Who are your other male friends? Preferably ones that Francis has not met?” 

It turned out that, while Arthur had several friends (“I’m not the hermit you pretend I am, you know!), most of them had either met Francis, were already in a relationship, or were not attractive enough to make Francis jealous (“Ivan, you’re a shallow monster,” Arthur had protested when Ivan had labeled yet another close friend an “uggo”). When Ivan suggested that Arthur go with one of his own four brothers - surely Francis had not met them all? - they had to briefly pause the conversation because Arthur quite literally threw up at the thought. 

“They’re attractive, da? Why not?” Ivan said, holding a Kirkland family picture in one hand, and holding Arthur’s blonde hair back while he vomited with the other. 

They swiftly moved on from Arthur’s friends (and family) to his coworkers. Of course, it was not a very professional conversation, but the two were a tad too wasted to comply with professional standards at that point. 

“Yong Soo is good-looking,” Arthur was saying, now rummaging through Ivan and Yao’s cabinets in search of more alcohol, “D’you think ‘e’d go fer it?” 

“He does not like you,” Ivan grunted from his new spot on the kitchen floor. He had lost all ability to be nuanced in English. “He thinks you are crazy-pants. Next?” 

Arthur didn’t even bat an eye. “Elizaveta?”

“She is beautiful, but you are very homosexual, and Francis knows that. This works only if you can be attracted to the person.”

“Bloody hell, why is this so ‘ard…” Arthur bitched, having already named at least ten other people, “Miguel?” 

“He’s on sabbatical in Cuba.” 

“Michelle?”

“Moved back to Seychelles. Jesus, comrade, do you never read those farewell emails HR sends out? And what did we just say about your homosexuality?”

“...Vash?” 

Both friends looked at each other, then started guffawing very loudly.

“I’m sorry, sorry!” Arthur managed to say in between bouts of laughter, “I must be getting desperate!” 

“Truly you are,” Ivan agreed, wiping tears from his eyes, “Vash...you can be true comedian when you want, Arthur!” 

The joke was that Vash Zwingli was a man obsessed with his sister. Nobody really talked about it. Especially since his sister happened to be their CEO. 

...In any case, nobody talked about it. 

“What about Alfred?” Ivan suggested, thinking of his relatively new American friend, “He’s single, and he’s good-looking.” 

“Ugh, Jones? No,” Arthur said, “I’d rather not hang out with that wanker, thanks very much.”

“Are you still mad about today? He barely teased you.”

“That’s because you intervened!” Arthur said, which was true enough. “Besides, he always bothers me like that, and I barely know him.” Which was also true enough. Alfred liked teasing people, especially people like Arthur, who were rather easily wound up. Still Alfred had never been particularly nasty. And he really _was_ attractive. He could definitely give Francis’ new boyfriend a run for his money. 

“D’you even know if he’s gay?” Arthur asked, interrupting Ivan’s thought process. 

Ivan shrugged, sheepishly, “I believe he’s straight...do not give me that look, that doesn’t matter!” He staggered to his feet, determined to wipe Arthur’s smug smirk off his face, “It doesn’t matter! He’s attractive and he owes me a favor, and you can pay him, like prostitute.”

“Whatever,” Arthur said dismissively, and the two gave up on the topic for the night.

Which was why, the next morning, Ivan was surprised and horrified to see Arthur march up to Alfred in the breakroom and brusquely say, “Good morning, Jones. How much can I pay you to accompany me to a wedding?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's bravery pays off.

Despite what everybody said, Arthur was a sober-minded man, solid, reliable, and stoic. He never did anything particularly adventurous. Every single one of his exes had complained about his lack of spontaneity - Arthur's idea of “spicing up” a relationship usually involved buying a different brand of curry for the night’s supper. Of course, he loved to talk about all the different things he’d do, all the dramatic actions he’d take, but none of them ever panned out. He just wasn’t that type of person.

Which was why he was he was as surprised as anybody could be when his legs marched him out of his department and into the common break room in search of Alfred Jones. 

Usually, Arthur promptly forgot drunk conversations he had with Ivan. They were all on the ridiculous side, when one or both of them were feeling particularly vindictive. Last month they had intricately plotted out a double homicide involving both Yao and Francis (Yao’s crime? Buying Ivan lilies when he had wanted sunflowers) then never spoke of it again. It was just a way of blowing off steam. 

And yet, Arthur wasn’t able to shake the thought of bringing Alfred Jones as a fake date to Francis’ wedding. It would be a great way to get back at Francis, especially since Arthur found himself very shaken up by the whole situation. Honestly, not going when he was invited wasn’t even an option; Arthur wouldn’t allow his pride to be wounded so. And, if he were very honest with himself, he really did not want Francis to marry somebody who wasn’t him. Though they’d been broken up for seven months, Arthur still hadn’t been able to move on. Perhaps subconsciously he hoped that if Francis saw him there, looking fabulous and dating a blond knockout, he’d have a change of heart and realize Arthur was right for him all along. Not that Arthur would _ever_ admit that, to himself or anyone else. As usual, he pushed any feelings he may have had deep, deep inside and bottled them up until they eventually festered and rotted and destroyed him from inside. Nothing like good old British stoicism!

In any case, Arthur found himself in front of Alfred Jones offering him money. To accompany him to his ex-boyfriend’s wedding. Even though Alfred Jones was straight as an arrow and had probably talked to Arthur a grand total of eight times. Six of those eight times Alfred called him ‘Artie’ and implied he was a disaster.

This was a terrible idea.

“Forget I said anything,” Arthur quickly said, turning rather pink. Alfred, to his credit, looked only somewhat mortified at being propositioned. “I didn’t - I wasn’t thinking, I -” 

“I mean, I think I’m flattered?” Alfred interrupted, still stunned. 

“A-as you should...I mean, I apologize, Jones, that was absolutely -” 

“I think we’re past ‘Jones’ now, Artie, hm?” Alfred said, now looking around the breakroom somewhat uneasily. Probably to check that nobody was listening in on their conversation. Which was a wise idea, really, one that Arthur probably should have had by himself. It was thankfully empty, and the only person in the surrounding area was Ivan, who was very clearly trying to eavesdrop. Arthur waved him away angrily, hoping not to arouse suspicion. This was such a stupid idea, no wonder Arthur was never spontaneous - 

“Anyway,” Arthur shook his head and looked at Alfred again, who was speaking in a quieter voice, “you want me to come with you to a wedding, Artie? Who’s wedding is this?” 

“Wait, are you considering it?” Arthur immediately asked, trying to keep the desperation from showing in his eyes. He’d been told it looked very unattractive on him. 

Alfred didn’t answer immediately. “I...might be considering it. Which makes me crazy, I’m sure, because I don’t even know you. I don’t want any money though. That stinks a bit of prostitution, don’t you think?”

Arthur fought to not look in the direction of Ivan’s desk. “Hm. Is there...anything you’d want then?” He asked, quickly remembering the wedding invitation stuck hastily in his nightstand. It sort of smelled like Francis’ perfume still. “Anything. Really. Anything at all.” 

“Rather bold of you, Artie, asking someone you barely know for such a personal favor.” Alfred grinned lazily, and Arthur immediately regretted showing vulnerability. “It really doesn’t seem like you.” 

“And yet, here I am,” Arthur ground out, suppressing the urge to yell that Alfred didn’t know him at all. The American’s grin had taken on a rather nasty edge, and Arthur wasn’t really looking to provoke him. “Do you have anything to contribute, or are we both here just wasting our time?” 

“Tsk tsk,” Alfred said condescendingly, “if you’re asking someone for a favor, you shouldn’t be rushing them. Where are your manners?” HOW had Ivan failed to mention that his lovely friend Alfred was such an arsehole?! And not just a minorly annoying one, but an absolute complete prick? “Anyway, I guess now that I have the opportunity, I do have a...favor, of sorts. Something you could do for me. I’m assuming I wouldn't just be going to this wedding as a good and supportive friend, right?”

Arthur shook his head carefully. 

“I see. What would my role be, in this scenario of yours?” Arthur muttered something under his breath, impossible for the human ear to pick up. “Somehow, I didn’t catch that. Can you repeat?” Another grumble. “Artiiie, if we can’t communicate-”

“BOYFRIEND!” Arthur finally shouted, then immediately clamped his hands over his mouth. He whirled around wildly, looking to see in anyone heard him. Judging by the strange looks he was getting, some people had, though no one seemed to approach them. Satisfied that no one would come and investigate, Arthur turned back to Alfred, now royally frustrated, and spat out, “If at all _possible_ , you would be my _boyfriend_.” Alfred looked impossibly smug. Arthur had never wanted to punch someone he had barely met so badly. “What is this favor of yours, you arrogant dickhead?” he asked pleasantly. 

Alfred’s smirk didn’t disappear, “My, my, someone’s got quite a mouth on him. Is that what makes you so popular with guys?” That was it. Arthur was ready to give up on the whole thing. No person this awful deserved even a second more of Arthur’s time...though the scented wedding invitation still weighed heavy on his mind, and Alfred seemed at least willing to pretend. Damn it. “Anyway, my favor isn't so bad. You’re still close with Mr. Väinämöinen, right?”

Arthur closed his eyes. Of course. He should have known. 

Despite popular claim, Arthur was not a particularly ambitious man. He liked his job as a translator. He enjoyed the puzzle every translation provided, and the beauty of every language he learned. It was one of the reasons he and Ivan got along so well - they both valued the everyday drudgery direct translation provided, and were not willing to give it up for things like promotions (though both men gladly took pay raises). However, it was well known throughout the office that if Arthur or any of his friends wanted a promotion, they’d get one. Mostly because Arthur had saved the life of the most senior director, Tino Väinämöinen, two years ago. 

Tino, a mild mannered man with a small frame and a big heart had been walking his tiny dog one night when a crazed junkie held him up at knifepoint, demanding an impossible amount of money. By the grace of god, Arthur had also been walking in the same neighborhood, and had spotted his senior director in peril. Now, Arthur did not have many talents. But decades of growing up with five rowdy belligerent older brothers had taught him a lot about fighting. So he had, very gracefully, tackled the junkie and held him down while Tino called the police. It was a rather unique networking opportunity, as Ivan had later described it.

In any case, the whole company leadership had been grateful to him - especially Tino, who was in charge of hiring new staff and personnel for most departments. Because of his newfound status as the company golden child, many of Arthur’s colleagues had attempted to exploit his connection with Tino for a new job or promotion. However, they soon stopped, because it was clear Arthur was proud of the fact that he was incorruptible. He’d never exploit his newfound relationship with Tino. Never. _Never._

...Almost never. 

“Yes, I’m still close to Tino,” Arthur finally answered. Alfred lit up, and Arthur wanted to hit him again. 

“Great! In that case, I need you to make me a lawyer.” 

Arthur blinked mildly. “Sorry, what?”

“Did you know I have a law degree?”Alfred turned casually around, restarting his ritual of coffeemaking. He looked almost as if he was posing some camera, ready to give a televised speech. Arthur turned around like an idiot to see if anyone was watching. “I do, you know. I went to Berkeley. It’s not Harvard, but it’s...pretty close. Did you know that?” 

Arthur wanted to say that the only thing he knew about Alfred was that the American’s last name was ‘Jones’ and that he smelled like weed occasionally, but he somehow restrained himself. 

“A lawyer, working as an IT technician...it was supposed to be temporary.” Alfred began, now stirring his milk into his dark coffee. Arthur was sorely tempted to tune him out. “I had IT training, but that’s not what I wanted to do. But I’m sure you know that the employment rate for new lawyers is abysmal, especially if you want to work for a top international company. If you aren’t from a top ten school, and you don’t graduate in the top one--”

“Oh fucking Christ, what’s your point?” Arthur interrupted, getting impatient. Alfred’s smirk finally slipped, though only momentarily. 

“I know I’ll be a good lawyer. I want Mr. Väinämöinen to take me on as an in-house one. I just need a chance.” Alfred said, quickly, “I want you to recommend me. Tell him you and I know each other really well, and that I have a great work ethic, and am willing to learn.”

Arthur couldn’t believe he was about to sell out his ethics like this. He wasn’t even going to think about it. Pathetically enough, he was even a little relieved. When he offered Alfred money initially, he’d forgotten that all he had to his name was a negative bank statement and a nice unicorn statuette. 

“Fine. I’ll recommend you, you’ll get your bloody job, happy days,” Arthur huffed, “BUT, you’re going to come to this wedding with me. You’re going to make Francis believe that we are happily in love. We’re going to dance, mingle, and do everything in our power to make Francis wish he never let me go. Then, and ONLY then, will I talk to Tino about getting you out of IT.” 

Alfred stared at Arthur for a while, which was rather unnerving. While Alfred was thinking, Arthur conveniently remembered that Ivan had said something about Alfred owing him a favor. Idiot! Why had he not led with that? Maybe this favor was big enough to force Alfred into a fake relationship? Now Arthur was going to look like a complete sell-out when he recommended Alfred to Tino. His incorruptible reputation would take a hit. Of course, this was the exact type of thing Francis would think up - his ex always found the most innovative ways to ruin Arthur’s life. In fact...this whole thing was super suspicious! An engagement a mere seven months after a breakup? It was probably a sham wedding! Perhaps it was all just a plan to mess with Arthur’s head! Surely Francis found some model, bided his time, then crafted wedding invitations when he saw that Arthur was getting complacent --

“Alright, Artie-kins,” Alfred finally said, interrupting Arthur’s rather insane train of thought, “It sounds like a deal. I’ll be your boyfriend for as long as you need. Just get me my dream job, hm? Shake on it?” He stuck out his hand. Arthur noticed it was rather tan and large. Then he internally smacked himself.

“Deal,” he said, not liking the widening smile on Alfred’s face. 

“Great!” Alfred replied, pulling away after a beat. “Well then, let’s get started, shall we? We need to nail down a couple’s dynamic before we go to that wedding, right?”

And so began the worst week of Arthur’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look y'all, if you write shorter chapters you update faster...what a revelation...
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback! Trust me, that ALSO helps you update faster. Very much so :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Arthur are very good at making each other uncomfortable.

“You’ve met my new main squeeze, right fellas?” Arthur put a conscientious effort into not smacking the hand that was gently resting on his shoulder, “This is Arthur Kirkland, from the translation department! I’m sure his giant eyebrows have caught your attention a few times, heh.” 

Alfred had been introducing Arthur around the company for the past two days, which was absurdly annoying, considering the fact that Arthur had worked there far longer than Alfred had. Worse still, everyone was _going along_ with Alfred’s ridiculous charade, mockingly shaking Arthur’s hand. When Alfred revealed they were dating (“Everyone has to know we’re seeing each other, Arthur, or it won’t look believable at the wedding!”), Arthur was also heartily patted on the back and congratulated, as if he’d won some grand prize by dating Alfred F. Jones.

Well, he certainly _hadn’t_. Handsome the American may be, he was obnoxious and occasionally fucking gross. Adults should no longer make farting noises with their mouths, as Alfred and his fellow IT ilk occasionally did. 

Which brought him back to the present. 

“I always thought you were straight as an arrow, Alfie,” one of Alfred’s coworkers (and they all blended together in Arthur’s head, he couldn’t tell them apart no matter how many times Alfred insisted they each wore different brands of glasses), “it’s weird to see you all gay now! Awesome!”

And they high-fived. Arthur nodded silently to himself.

“Right. Well, I really should be leaving, got a report to be doing and all that rot…”

“Ah, c’mon Kirkland, no need to be shy!” another coworker chimed in. Arthur’s shot-in-the-dark guess was his name was Eduard, and that he was of Estonian origin - there had been a time in Ivan’s life where he only spoke to those with Eastern European roots, so Arthur had managed to learn their names at least. Which wasn’t any sort of comfort at the moment, as Eduard had gotten up from his chair, grabbed Arthur’s hand, and twirled him out of Alfred’s grasp, “We’re all curious about the man who turned made our boy bat for the other team!” 

Arthur sighed in indignation. This also kept happening every time Alfred introduced Arthur to a new gaggle of colleagues. They would marvel and awe at him, wondering what it was he did to make their golden boy lose his way. Well, it was a very simple combination of looks, charm, and the promise of promotion! Hadn’t any of these idiots ever sold out their principals before?! 

Eduard continued to inspect him, and Arthur found himself rather fed up. 

“Would you excuse us for a moment, please?” he said, breaking Eduard’s curious gaze, and grabbing Alfred’s wrist harshly. He pulled them out of IT’s layer and into the common break broom, grateful that it was empty for the first time that week. 

“Can you stop this?!” Arthur hissed once they were safely inside, hidden from inquisitive eyes, “There is no need for you to prance me around like a show horse! Especially to people I’ve known longer than you have!” 

“They’re fascinated by you!” Alfred said, grinning brightly, “They want to know all about the guy who turned me all gay.”

“Jesus Christ on a fucking bicycle, Alfred, can you stop harping on about that?” Arthur crossed his arms defiantly, longing for the days when he still called Alfred ‘Jones’ and didn’t talk to him for longer than twenty minutes at a time, “You live in twenty-first-century California, for bollocks’ sake, being gay should not be such a bloody novelty!” 

“Can you please stop yelling, _dear_ , people are going to wonder if there’s trouble in paradise. And we only just became Facebook-official -”

“Sorry, we became _what_?!” Arthur interrupted, his hand involuntarily reaching for the iPhone in his back pocket, “Please tell me you didn’t. My entire family follows me on that bloody site.”

“Perfect, so it’s even more convincing!” Alfred said, rather distractedly. He was looking over Arthur’s shoulder now, and Arthur noticed that Eduard was waving the American over, probably for an ‘IT emergency’. Arthur could see Alfred’s concentration already drifting towards Eduard’s shenanigans, which was infuriating, considering that he’d just dropped a bomb that would ruin Arthur’s family life in the months to come. 

“I didn’t need it to be that fucking convincing! Jones, you are an absolutely miserable and stupid _git_ -”

“Now now, no need for name calling. And it’s Alfred, remember? Are you even committed to this, Artie?”

“God, you’re such a...a…!” and for once, Arthur’s impressive vocabulary failed him. He simply could not find a word terrible enough to describe Alfred in this moment.

In English, anyway. There were some choice curses he could think of in Russian. Ivan would be proud. 

“Eloquent,” Alfred said dismissively, now motioning back to Eduard, “I have to go back to work, unfortunately. I’ll see you later though, sweet-cheeks!”

He left Arthur alone in the cramped breakroom, positively fuming and on the verge of punching someone in the face. Thankfully, the next person Arthur saw was Ivan, and the Russian didn’t mind terribly when his friend aimed a particularly hard kick at his shin. 

\------------

“Can we please do this quickly, by the way? I was hoping to meet a friend tonight for drinks.” 

Work had finally ended, though in Arthur’s humble opinion it had not ended soon enough. He’d only managed to translate four pages total, well under his average, mostly because he was distracted all day by coworkers coming up to him and cooing at his new relationship with Alfred. And, objectively, it was Alfred’s fault, because the idiot had done his absolute best to make sure _everyone_ knew the two were dating each other. And seeing as Francis was familiar with none of his co-workers save Ivan, Arthur was forced to conclude that Alfred merely wanted to humiliate him because it was funny and because he could.

Even worse, Arthur couldn’t think of a single way to retaliate without putting his entire plan in jeopardy; he’d zealously sent Francis an answer already, accepting the invitation, and confirming that he would indeed be bringing a ‘plus one’. Though the way things were going, the plus-one might be a dead body that Arthur dragged around and propped up…

In either case, Alfred held all the cards, so Arthur had no choice but to grin and bear his own mistreatment. Which included inviting the American horror to his apartment so they could get their story straight without the distraction of immature IT wankers.

And they would need to get it perfect. If there was one thing Francis was good at, it was smelling a rat in a romance. 

“I’m sorry I’m preventing you further developing your beer gut,” Arthur said, and pretended to ignore Alfred’s displeased countenance, “This shouldn’t take long. We just need to figure out what we’re going to tell Francis at the wedding.”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Whatever. That’s easy. We met at work, I realized I had an attraction to furry eyebrows and crooked teeth, you fell for my Adonis-like physique, we’ve been together ever since. Sounds cut and dry to me.”

Arthur ran his tongue over his teeth somewhat self consciously. His eyebrows had long been a mark on his otherwise handsome face, but his teeth never seemed like much of a problem for anybody else...perhaps he’d have to ask Ivan for an objective opinion. 

“It’s not ‘cut and dry’, Alfred,” Arthur finally said, mentally shaking himself out of his funk. Thoughts of teeth aside, he couldn’t afford to let the bastard American distract him now. “When exactly did we meet? How? What do you like about me? What do I like about _you_? How did you ignore my shitty teeth long enough to find me attractive?” Perhaps he sounded a tad bitter, but he figured it was justified. Stupid Alfred Jones and his literally flawless physical physique. When he smiled, Arthur noticed his teeth were _utter_ perfection. Suddenly, his mother’s insistence on not putting braces on Arthur when he was younger did not seem like such a merciful act. 

Alfred, meanwhile, shrugged. “Can I sit down?” he asked, finally taking off his jacket and moving away from Arthur’s doorway. Arthur realized it was probably incredibly rude of him to not even invite his fake-boyfriend inside. It seemed his seven-month dry spell had (surprisingly!) not helped his hermit tendencies. 

Arthur was about to answer (and attempt to be slightly more pleasant than usual - he couldn’t ruin his reputation as a gentleman, after all), when his phone’s ring tone interrupted. He frowned, wondering who in their right mind would call instead of just texting, and pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket, looking at the display. He blanched at the name. 

_Francis Bonnefoy_

Arthur immediately panicked. Why was Francis _calling_? Right now?! Right in this very second?

Alfred must have quickly realized something was wrong, because he approached Arthur hesitantly, one eyebrow raised in confusion. “Artie-kins?” he said, and was surprised to find that Arthur did not get angry at the nickname, “Arthur? Dude, do you not know how to answer a modern telephone, what’s up?”

Arthur’s panic did not subside at these calming words. However, looking at Alfred, he had an idea. Perhaps they could put his plan to action a little sooner than expected.

“Come here, you git,” Arthur muttered, still wide-eyed from panic. He grabbed Alfred’s arm and dragged the American well within Arthur’s own personal space, “When I answer my mobile, you’re going to start moaning, alright?”

“Uh - I’m sorry, wha-”

“You will do as I say!” Arthur demanded wildly, taking Alfred’s hands and maneuvering them onto his hips. He did not notice Alfred’s reddening face. “Pretend we’re in the middle o-of something, okay?” he forced one of Alfred’s hands down his side, and yelled “Moan convincingly!” for good measure, before finally answering his phone.

“Wha-Arthur!” Alfred tried to protest, but his voice was stifled when Arthur slammed his palm over Alfred’s mouth.

“H-hello?” Arthur said breathily. He slowly lowered his hand from Alfred’s face, praying that the American would play along. “W-who is it?” 

“ _Did you never figure out how to work a smart-phone after all, mon petit? There is a magical thing called Caller-ID that people in this century use.”_ a very familiar voice oozed through the speaker, and Arthur nearly broke character to shout at Francis for making the same stupid jokes he always had. However, Alfred interrupted with a particularly loud moan, which was paired with a squeeze of Arthur’s hips. It took Arthur by surprise, forcing a gasp out of him that wasn’t entirely faked.

Francis seemed to realize what he had inadvertently stumbled into.

“ _Ah, Arthur...are you busy?_ he asked, somewhat hesitantly. Alfred chose that particular moment to groan out Arthur’s name, as well as drag his hand down to Arthur’s ass and feel him up rather eagerly. Arthur realized, a little belatedly, that there actually was little reason for Alfred to be touching him if Francis could only hear them…

“Yes, I am Francis, so hurry it up please!” Arthur finally replied, turning crimson at Alfred’s actions.

“ _I suppose my question has been answered...I wondered if you had marked the ‘plus-one’ box by mistake._ ”

“Nope. All legitimate. Indeed. My boyfriend is accompanying me -” he cut himself off rather curtly, as Alfred pushed their hips together. This was probably a good laugh for Alfred and all, but Arthur was a red-blooded homosexual man, and the biological effects of their current situation were catching up to him quickly. This effect was multiplied due to hearing his ex’s voice, the one he usually associated with these sorts of...activities… “Look, Francis, is there a point to this phone conversation? As I’m sure you can tell, I’m quite busy!” 

“ _I’m sorry to interrupt your fun, Sourcils,”_ Francis said, and infuriatingly, he did sound somewhat apologetic. _“I’m glad you are coming. I have been wanting to...atone for how I treated you. And I am happy you’ve found someone new - I can only hope he treats you with the respect you deserve._ ”

And Arthur, who was being dry-humped by a straight man he’d bribed into being his boyfriend (and worse, was getting somewhat turned on by it), thought that he was, indeed, being treated with the all respect he deserved after all. 

“I’ll see you at the wedding, Francis. Congratulations again.” he muttered bitterly before hanging up. As soon as he did, Alfred immediately pushed him away, as if he’d been electrified. Arthur rolled his eyes, and willed his body’s excitement to disappear. The combination of bitterness and arousal he’d just experienced was extremely unpleasant - he did not want a repeat performance. 

“Was that him?” Alfred asked. Oddly enough, he sounded a little out of breath. Arthur figured acting even a little gay put a lot of strain on the American. They’d have to work on that before the wedding. 

“No, it was my mum,” Arthur replied monotonously, “Just wanted to give her a little show of what I like to get up to in my spare time.” he ignored Alfred’s very dirty look, “Yes, that was him. We fooled him for now, but we’re going to have to do a lot better for the actual wedding.” 

“Well,” Alfred said, his voice sounding more normal, “I guess I can tell Eduard we got to second base now.”

“We did not get to bloody second base,” Arthur hissed, glaring at the American, “Though you did feel my arse up rather thoroughly for a straight bloke!”

Alfred looked rather angry at Arthur’s insinuation, though it was tinged with...fear? Panic? 

“I-you were the one who wanted me to!” he said defensively, “Why did I need to touch you if he was just on the phone?! Y-you were probably just desperate for me to feel-”

“Ugh, shut up please, I don’t need to hear your idiotic opinion right now,” Arthur interrupted, refusing to admit Alfred had somewhat of a point. He marched past the American, making his way to the kitchen. “D’you want a drink? We have a lot of work to do.” 

But Alfred did not follow him to the kitchen, seemingly rooted to the floorboards of Arthur’s living room. Arthur frowned, displeased. 

“Actually, I’m going to go,” Alfred said stoically. Arthur blanched. 

“You just got here!” he protested, “You’ve only been here for fifteen minutes, we haven’t discussed a thing.” But Alfred did not move from his spot. Arthur’s formidable eyebrows furrowed severely. “Are you really so bloody offended that you had to touch me? I have some bad news for you, when we pretend to be a couple, it’s going to involve a lot of-” 

“I’m not offended,” Alfred said weirdly, finally moving - though unfortunately, he moved in the direction of the doorway, “I just shouldn’t have come tonight. I’ve had these plans with my friend for a while. I don’t want to stand them up.”

“Alfred, we had a deal!”

“And we still have a deal, Artie,” Alfred said, picking up his jacket from the couch where he’d abandoned it earlier, “Just not tonight. I’ll text you later, we can meet up at some point this weekend, yeah?”

And Arthur was forced to watch as his supposed-lover fled from his apartment like a mouse from a trap. Well, that’s what he got for bribing the straightest man in their company. He shrugged. If nothing else, he got to (rightly) claim that he was felt up by someone as hot as Alfred, and in the gay community, that counted for some real brownie points. Even despite Arthur’s crooked teeth problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding is coming. I am desperately trying to read fics with Germany in them to get the hang of his character. It's not going well.
> 
> Thank you guys again for any and all feedback! It gives me life as my English slowly slips away from me...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur drinks, goes to the airport, then wants to drink again.

“Yes, mum, you lot can meet him sometime soon, alright?” Arthur was saying three hours before he had to be at LAX, still struggling with his suitcase. He was speaking to his mother over the phone, though it was proving to be a trying conversation, and Ivan was doing absolutely nothing to help even though that was the _whole point of him being there -_ “He’s lovely, really, don’t let his Facebook fool you,” he motioned jerkily at Ivan, attempting to get some help with the rather overstuffed monstrosity. Ivan seemed to catch on, but he was very slow to move his enormous arse off Arthur’s couch. “I’m sure dad’ll be keen on him as well -”

“ _You know your father, Arthur,_ ” his mother replied statically. Arthur shuffled slightly, not truly listening to her. His main priority was letting Ivan sit on his suitcase so he could zip it up. “ _He really did like Francis. And you’re so sensitive, we really didn’t believe you’d move on so quickly…_ ” Arthur preemptively glared at Ivan, who looked like he was about to snort. “ _We’re sure this Alfred is...lovely...but we always saw you with a more literary type, a European. You know I don’t mind Yanks, but they can be rather bombastic. ___”

“I assure you, Alfred is nothing like that, mum,” Arthur grumbled, vaguely recalling the other night, when Alfred had watched football in a sports bar and aggressively body-slammed anyone there who supported his team. And he hadn’t even been drunk. 

...And the suitcase zipped. Success! Ivan looked rather like he wanted a pat for his efforts. Arthur indulged him, albeit for a few seconds only. 

“ _We trust you, poppet,"_ his mother said, ruining their moment of triumph, “ _You have all of our support, including your brothers’ - don’t snort like that Arthur, it’s very unbecoming - just be safe, take photographs, and wish Francis well on our behalf, alright?_ ” 

“Will do. Love you,” he said, perhaps a bit monotonously, before hanging up. He was unsurprised to find Ivan staring at him. 

“Oh, bugger off, will you?” he got up from the floor, abandoning Ivan and the suitcase in favor of a parting gin and tonic, “It’s not technically a lie.” 

“Uh, yes it is,” Ivan said, “It’s a lie, technically, literally, phonetically -” 

“It was your idea!” Arthur interrupted, now calling from the kitchen, “You certainly must recall that, Braginsky!” 

“I just feel bad when you lie to your mother…” Ivan said in a small voice, sounding rather shamefaced, “She sounded so happy you were finally moving on with your life and not moping around like a little bitch.” 

“I do not mope, bitchily or otherwise!” Arthur returned from the kitchen, bottles of gin and tonic water in each hand. “Care for a nightcap?” 

“It’s not a nightcap if it’s not night,” Ivan said, but took the bottle of gin from Arthur’s grasp anyway, “Are you meeting Alfred at the airport? You should let him know then that he is to meet your mother.” 

Arthur glared at the Russian, and shoved an empty glass in his direction, “As far as Jones is concerned, I don’t have a mother. Or a family, for that matter. And certainly no brothers.” 

Ivan smirked, eyes twinkling, “Back to Jones, Arthur? Is that any way to treat a man who felt you up and touched your butt?” 

Arthur nearly dropped the tonic water he was holding. 

“Why did I tell you that?” he moaned regretfully, “He didn’t even want to! And I didn’t want him to! I just panicked!” 

“It is a nice butt!” Ivan added, making a show of looking around at Arthur’s backside, even though the Brit was already sitting down, “It suits you. Yao thinks it is your best feature. Alfred probably agrees.” 

“All three of you can bite me. Wankers.” Arthur said, and ignored Ivan’s mirthful giggles. 

Besides, Alfred probably did not like his arse that much. He hadn’t mentioned the ‘incident’ once in their subsequent meetings. Which was just fine by Arthur - as long as Alfred’s attitude wasn’t pure repulsion, they should be good to go in terms of PDA at the wedding. 

What was _not_ good to go was Alfred’s increasingly annoying attitude. An hour ago, he’d rang and told Arthur that the Brit was to pay any overweight fees Alfred’s baggage might incur. “It’s okay if you don’t want to - I just won’t come to your boyfriend’s fancy shindig. I’m sure you’ll have fun without me!” Arthur had nearly broken his phone by throwing it against the wall. It was after that particular outburst that he’d called Ivan, hoping the Russian would help him pack and calm him down. 

Well, Ivan managed to do only half of his job. Badly. 

“D’you think he’ll stick to his word, Ivan?” Arthur asked after a minute of quiet contemplation. Ivan looked surprised at his serious tone. “What if he doesn’t...what if it’s clear that he has no feelings for me, and that I just brought him along to trick Francis? I’ll be mortified! Everyone will know what a pathetic sod I am.” 

“He is getting benefits too, yes?” Ivan said uncertainly, “He will become fancy lawyer. Lawyers make a lot more money than those basement-dwellers in IT do.” 

“I suppose that’s true…” Arthur said, though he had his doubts. For someone who didn’t like his job, Jones sure looked like he belonged in IT. He was _very_ good with technology, and he seemed to be best friends with everyone in the department. Did he really want to give all that up just for the money and prestige of being a lawyer? And why had Arthur never heard of this ambition before? True, the two were not close before their, ahem, partnership, but they had several mutual acquaintances who surely would have let such a trivial fact about Jones slip. 

“Anyway, I am bored of this topic now.” Ivan said, interrupting Arthur’s train of thought, “You will be very excellent together, I am sure. Francis and his tank-of-a-fiance will be envious. I promise. Let’s talk instead about my salary. I deserve a raise, and am not getting it. Why do you think this is? I have a few theories myself - first, I think despite what you claim, Vash heard me when I said we needed to call the freak patrol to monitor him and his sister. No, Arthur, don’t interrupt, I have evidence for this!” 

_\--------------_

Ivan had been kind enough to drive Arthur to the airport, though he hadn’t been kind enough to help him with his suitcase once they’d arrived. He’d rolled down the window, hollered something about Alfred’s hands and Arthur’s arse, and sped off as quickly as one could in LAX traffic. Which was 5mph, but Arthur got the point. He was left to lug his overstuffed baggage into the bustling airport, hoping against logic that Alfred had been lying, and that he’d packed light… 

He should have known better, of course, because fifteen minutes later, he saw Alfred stomping through the entrance of the airport, carrying what had to be the largest most abhorrent piece of luggage known to mankind. It was neon pink, which was an interesting choice for a self-proclaimed straight man, and it seemed to have two broken wheels and a barely functional handle. Jones was carrying it around with relative ease, however, so perhaps it was lighter than it looked and Arthur wouldn’t have to pay extra fees after all… 

“Hey there, Art!” Alfred called, shit-eating grin in place, “Glad to see you’re on time! You have quite the reputation around the office, you know.” 

“What are you carrying in that beast?” Arthur immediately accused, ignoring Alfred’s (rather accurate) statement, “It’s a few ruddy days, not a Cancun honeymoon,” he reached for Alfred’s suitcase, intending to test the weight. When Alfred let go, however, Arthur found that he couldn't hold it up for more than a second before letting it crash at his feet. 

“Bloody hell, that’s fucking heavy!” Arthur shouted, attracting a few inquisitive looks. Alfred smiled at him, rather...fondly. Though surely the pain of what had to be a three-hundred pound suitcase landing on his toes was clouding Arthur’s judgement a bit. 

“Sure is. I’m pretty strong though, so it’s not a problem. I can carry yours too, if you want?” And before Arthur could protest, Alfred heaved both his and Arthur’s suitcase onto one arm and walked towards the check-in counter with practiced ease. Before Arthur could be properly impressed however, Alfred called back “You’re still paying the overweight fee, babe!” And Arthur found himself infuriated all over again. 

_\--------------_

They went through security easily (though Alfred had all sorts of struggles removing his combat boots at the checkpoint, and Arthur had to watch on, mortified, as his ‘boyfriend’ held up the queue), and Arthur made it through passport control without angering a TSA agent - Alfred, of course, went through much quicker in the American domestic queue, because of course he did. Despite arriving somewhat on time, Arthur’s last minute desire to binge-shop in a book-store and a rather lengthy loo stop on Alfred’s part caused the two to arrive last-minute at their gate. However, the flight attendants were not angry with them. In fact, they were immediately somewhat enamoured with Alfred. Because of course they were. Perhaps Arthur also would have been affected by Alfred’s ample looks and charm, if Alfred wasn’t an absolute complete git all the time. 

Thankfully, the two were not seated together, which was an incredible relief to Arthur. They’d already talked through their story several times, though Arthur berated Alfred into repeating it again before he found his seat on the plane. They’d met at work, through Ivan. Alfred had been charming, and Arthur - witty. Their chemistry had been undeniable, and therefore Alfred had thrown all caution to the wind and decided to date a man for the first time. They’d only been seeing each other a few months, but they were convinced they were in love, and Alfred was happy to accompany Arthur to any wedding, even one in New York. 

(“I hate New York,” Alfred had said one night when he and Arthur were sitting at a pub, trying to get their story straight, “I was there when I was a kid, and the biggest fucking storm hit. I was scared shitless. It’s part of the reason I moved to LA, actually - no storms here, that’s for sure!” Arthur had gently told him that he didn’t give a shit and ordered another ale.) 

It was a simple story, but Arthur was convinced simplicity would work for them. If it was too intricate, too fabricated, Francis would find them out immediately. Besides, Alfred didn’t seem like the sharpest tool in the shed - better that there weren’t too many details to mess with his adorable little brain. 

Without Alfred to annoy him, the flight was rather peaceful. They didn’t have a layover, and Arthur’s seat mate didn’t snore, so he found himself drifting off with ease, thoughts of Francis in a wedding dress and Alfred carrying a Jeep occupying his subconscious. 

_\--------------_

When they finally landed, there was a rather unpleasant surprise waiting for them by the exit of the airport. 

“Shit,” Arthur cursed, and pulled at Alfred’s arm before he could go through the doors, “That’s Francis out there. D’you see him?” 

Alfred frowned slightly, then arched his neck up to look past the crowd. He spotted a very handsome stylish blonde man, standing next to an equally stunning body-builder. The first man looked rather pleasant, looking around the airport hall with a relaxed air about him. He even had a slight smile, which lit up his already attractive face. The other man, meanwhile, wore a stony expression which looked able to flatten entire third-world villages. Arthur gulped. 

“I see him,” Alfred said, in a strange tone. It reminded Arthur of the way he sounded the night of Francis’ phone call. “He looks even better in person than he does in pictures.” 

“That is so far from relevant, I don’t even know what to do with myself!” Arthur smacked Alfred’s bicep, though it ended up hurting the Brit’s hand far worse, “Pay attention! Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to walk out there, lost in each other’s eyes, laughing. Alright? We keep walking. We let them come to us - like we’re too busy being in love and all that shit to notice them.” 

Alfred nodded slowly, though he was still staring at Francis strangely. Arthur rolled his eyes, and tugged at Alfred’s hand. He didn’t want to analyse his own emotions too closely. Likely the slight heart palpitations that started when he saw Francis with his new gorgeous boy-toy were better off ignored and suppressed in true British fashion. 

The two walked out, hand-in-hand, looking to all the world like new-age millennial lovers, lost in each other’s eyes. Good thing the world could not really hear their conversation, however, because Alfred was the worst conversationalist in the entire world. 

“I really gotta fart, Artie,” he said, his grin firmly plastered onto his face. Arthur struggled not to let his slip, although it was difficult when he wanted to punch the American in the face. 

“Hold it in!” he ground out, trying to simultaneously look into Alfred’s eyes and at what was in front of him so they didn’t crash, “For fuck’s sake, you are such a blubbering idiot!” 

Alfred squeezed Arthur’s hand unpleasantly hard. “It’s a natural biological process, you tyrant! It’s not good to hold it in. Imma do it.” 

“God damn it, Alfred, you are the stupidest -” 

“Ah, an insult with a smile. I am so happy to see you have not changed a bit, Arthur.” Arthur winced, hoped one last time that Alfred would have enough tact not to fart in the middle of an introduction, and turned to face his ex. 

Francis was, of course, devastatingly gorgeous as always. His hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, but it only served to accentuate his long neck and high cheek bones. His eyebrows and nails were manicured, his shoes were polished, and his trousers and button-up fit him like a glove, accentuating every appealing angle of his hips and waist. His legs also seemed to go on for miles, although he was proportionally very similar to Arthur. Meanwhile, Arthur’s sweatervest had bunched up on the sides, and he noticed a drop of drool on the front of his jeans. 

Lovely. 

“Howdy, I’m Alfred!” and of course, Alfred would chime in with the most classless greeting a Yank could ever potentially utter. One minute in, and Arthur needed a drink. And he hadn’t even said a word to the tank yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay an introduction! I know this was a rather quickly moving chapter, but I wanted the action to start y'all. 
> 
> Thanks again for all your feedback - every comment makes me write a lil' bit more :D
> 
> Also I will be BACK IN THE USA! This means access to all those other stories I couldn't update. Finally.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis and Arthur behave badly, Alfred plays at being an adult, and the tank remains stoic.

The tank still hadn’t spoken to either Arthur, Alfred, or Francis, and it had been a good half-hour since he’d nodded wordlessly at Francis’ introductions, fit Alfred and Arthur’s baggage into Francis’ tiny Renault, and sat dutifully in the back seat as Francis _insisted_ on allowing Alfred to ride shot-gun, leaving Arthur and a temporarily mute German to shove themselves behind their respective partners.

The tank had stayed stoically silent at the airport even as Francis had dropped all pretext of calm and all but jumped on Arthur after their initial greeting. 

“It is so good to see you, mon ami,” Francis had gushed, wrapping his arms firmly around Arthur’s waist. Arthur, for his part, awkwardly patted Francis’ back and tried to suppress his natural reaction to being in close proximity to his ex-boyfriend. “I understand we needed some distance, but I really have missed you, Arthur.” He’d pronounced it the English way, Arthur noticed, a sure sign he wanted Arthur buttered up. The Englishman subtly pushed his ex a safe distance away. 

“You really didn’t have to meet us at the airport, Francis,” Arthur said, “ _Really_ , you didn’t. I’m sure you both had a lot of other duties to prepare for…”

“Nonsense!” Francis said, looking at Alfred once again, “I wouldn’t leave you to find the guest houses by yourself, Arthur, I know how hopeless with directions you are!” Arthur would have simply pointed out that GPS would eliminate any sort of navigational deficiencies he may or may not have, but instead he was stunned almost speechless at the sight of the tank _and Alfred_ laughing at Francis’ cheap shot. “And I wanted to meet your new boyfriend, of course. Arthur, he’s gorgeous!” 

“Thank you, sir,” Alfred said, doing some sort of half bow. It made him look like a complete prick. Francis seemed not to notice, however; his eyes traced Alfred’s form, from head to toe, rather intimately for a platonic new acquaintance. Arthur was suddenly reminded of a fight he and Francis often had, and felt a pang of sympathy for the tank. He quickly shook it off, however - he was not here to make friends. He was here to prove that he was in love and totally fine and not at all missing Francis, and he would be able to do all of this if only Alfred would stop awkwardly bowing like a jackass every time Francis complemented him. 

And now, they had been traveling for almost thirty minutes, with radio silence in the back seat. In the front, meanwhile, Francis had chosen to regale Alfred with tales of past blunders Arthur had committed back in England, before he’d met any of these people and let his life come apart at the seams. 

“Arthur,” Francis was saying, and it was back to the French pronunciation, “had imaginary friends until he was fifteen years old. _Fifteen years old._ His parents were worried that he had some form of schizophrenia, which would have been very tragic, of course, but it turned out he was simply lonesome and had a very good imagination. They were all magic, and quite adorable! Has he shown you any of his little sketches? They are simply magnificent!”

Arthur couldn’t see Alfred’s reaction to this news, but the tank, while still not emitting a sound, was now shaking in mirth. He repressed his urge to strangle both Francis and his new body-builder mute boyfriend and wrestled his iPhone from his trousers instead. 

_Made it to NY._ He typed, doing anything to avoid hearing more of Francis’ embarrassing monologues, _Haven’t killed the yank yet, which is a positive. Will likely kill the frog soon however._ He sent his positive message to Ivan, hoping the other man was still awake. 

The time difference was thankfully on Arthur’s side, because Ivan quickly replied: _Try to save the homicide for when he does not have G.I. Joe as a fiance. Though I guess his G.I. Joe can go up against yours._

_Something tells me his would be more motivated to protect him than mine is to protect me._ Arthur replied, though he smiled slightly at the picture. Neither the tank nor Alfred Jones were his favorite people in the world, but they certainly were some of the hottest. Watching the two of them fight, preferably shirtless, would almost be enough reparations for the hellish week he’d been having. 

_Get your mind out of the gutter._ Despite himself, Arthur snickered; it seemed Ivan knew him far too well. 

“Who are you laughing at, mon ami? Is it Ivan?” Francis suddenly called.

“None of your business frog,” Arthur said, locking his phone and returning it to his pocket. 

“I pray for your relationship, Alfred,” Francis said solemnly, “Arthur was half in love with Ivan while we were still dating. Such a shame. I had rather hoped that had changed after my departure…” 

“I was _not_ in love with Ivan,” Arthur ground out, quite tired of Francis’ voice. “Why don’t we change the topic. Hm? How did you two meet, Francis?” He rather gracelessly jerked his head toward the tank, mildly annoyed that this still did not warrant a reaction from the German. 

“Oh, it is a simple story,” Francis said, waving his hand, “We met at work. He is one of the accountants at the modeling agency I work at. Though he’s more suited to the modeling, if you ask me!” 

“Arthur and I met at work too!” Alfred suddenly chimed in, and Arthur, for what seemed like the hundredth time, repressed an urge to lean over Alfred’s chair and smack him. They had agreed not to bring up their own story unless Francis had asked. Clearly Alfred had zero impulse control, though it was Arthur’s fault for being surprised by this. “I work in the IT department, and one day, I see this short little English person cuss up a storm because someone hadn’t properly fixed his computer. I had never heard such colorful vocabulary in my life!”

Arthur frowned. He and Alfred hadn’t discussed any details beyond “we met at work”. Though now that Arthur thought about it, perhaps that had indeed been the first time he’d encountered Alfred. 

“Turned out he just hadn’t plugged it in. What a charmer!” The car shook with the sound of Francis’ guffaws. “But...I mean, I thought he was kind of cute. It sort of unleashed an existential crisis - I was totally straight before I met Arthur.”

“I was going to say, you don’t give off a particularly homosexual vibe!” Francis said, sounding pleased with himself. 

“For the last fucking time Francis,” Arthur interrupted, “Not everyone has to wear sequin boots and pink scarves to prove they’re bloody gay.”

“ _Every_ gay man has a vibe, Arthur,” Francis said, “You have a particularly strong one. So did Ivan, poor man, and it took him so long to realize it, if only you’d let me help…”

“SO,” Arthur decided to nip that conversation right in the bud. “Ludwig. You two met at work. Any special story behind that?”

The tank shrugged wordlessly, and Arthur gave up on conversing altogether.

\--------------

They finally made it to the lavish guest houses that Francis had been promising for an hour, and Arthur could not get out of the Renault quickly enough. He yelled something vaguely back at Alfred, instructing him to take both of their bags, then power-walked away from the scene before Alfred could protest. 

They were all so idiotic! Truly, they must have seen through his and Alfred’s charade instantaneously. It was the only explanation for why Francis bothered to pick them up from the airport when he hadn’t done so while he and Arthur were _dating_. 

“Lord, give me strength,” Arthur muttered. Even if Francis did know, it wouldn’t be Arthur who confirmed it for him. 

He continued stalking through the green, luscious grasses of the guest houses. Leave it to Francis to find a stylish yet underused wedding destination. Arthur kicked a well-manicured bush. It suited his ex, of course. Even these, the guest houses, likely the least important detail of Francis’ nuptials, were exquisite. They looked like several mansions squeezed together on a small plot of land, rather than any sort of gaudy hotel. Which, perhaps, was why Francis had insisted on the terminology “guest-house”.

Arthur harrumphed. He resolved to stop calling them as such in his head. Hotels they would be, pretty twinkling fairy lights on the window-sills be damned. 

He walked for several minutes, suffering from existential anguish and cursing the day the tank had ever been born, before becoming bored. The truth was despite his literary nature and his linguistic gifts, Arthur was not a man of introspection. Or a man who bore the New York chill well. And as satisfying as it had been to storm away from Francis’ stupid Renault, he’d had quite enough of aimless wandering. 

To his great misfortune, however, retracing his steps did not yield the results he was expecting. When he returned to where they had parked, his ex, the tank, and his ‘boyfriend’ were all gone, Renault disappearing along with them. He stared blankly at the abandoned street corner. 

“Bugger,” he muttered to himself, shivering. He supposed he _had_ instructed Alfred to just take his bag and go… 

He palmed his phone, still warm in his trouser pocket, but thought better of it. It would be a cold day in hell before he phoned Francis for assistance. 

“No, honestly,” he said aloud, “Bugger this.” He made his way to the first guest hou- _hotel building_ , and presented himself to the kindly old lady who seemed to be working at a sort of front desk. To his great pleasure, he’d guessed in one, as she had his room key immediately ready for him, with the room number _201_ printed neatly on the front of its chain. He thanked her sincerely and hunted down the nearest stairwell. 

He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised that when he finally tracked down his room door and stopped shivering long enough to shove the key into it to unlock it, he found Alfred lounging gracelessly on a wide-set bed, his own pink monstrosity of a bag and Arthur’s modest grey one shoved in the furthermost corner of the room. 

“You’re joking,” Arthur said. 

Alfred looked up at him, grin breaking out easily on his face. “Hello, darling. I’m so glad you made it back in one piece, I was so worried!” 

“I thought we discussed this,” Arthur said, rubbing his nose in annoyance - a strange habit that he possessed. It had the consequence of making his skin always look rather irritated. “When we check in, we say we need two beds. I’d sleep on a waterbed at this point.”

Alfred shrugged. “Francis was with me. You wouldn’t want him suspicious, right?” 

“I think I would have taken the chance!” Arthur said, storming in and shoving the door closed behind him. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Alfred looked something close to annoyed. “Uh, like hell I am. This hero needs his beauty sleep. You can sleep on the floor if you’re so bothered.”

“You failed to get us a second bed. _You_ suffer the consequences.” 

Alfred shrugged, then leaned further into the obscene amount of pillows stacked on the bed. “Nah. I like it here, thank you very much. Very comfortable. Smells like lilac.”

Arthur immediately marched over and grabbed at Alfred’s forearm, shoving at him insistently. “Get off, you bloody oaf, get _off_!” he hissed, attempting to push Alfred off. To his amazement, Alfred did not budge an inch. Though Arthur was rather short and lithe, he had a quiet sort of strength that made many large men underestimate him. Here however, he truly was outclassed. “Jones, get off!” 

“Jones again, is it?” Alfred commented drily, though he turned to look at Arthur’s futile attempts to shove him off the bed. 

“Urgh!” Arthur groaned, trying even harder, in vain. Clearly, he was outclassed, and perhaps far more frustrated than the situation called for. But he _needed_ a bed to himself. And not just because he’d just faced his ex for the first time in _months_ , and it had been a harrowing experience and he wanted some solitary sleep. With renewed focus, he clambered onto the sheets, passingly pleased that Alfred looked shocked at his tactics, and planted his knees on either side of Alfred’s hips. Before either of them could be too scandalized with Arthur’s position essentially in Alfred’s lap, the Briton grabbed both of Alfred’s wrists and rocked his body weight back onto the heels of his feet. Minding his balance, he began to stand up, dragging Alfred’s arms around his own waist and essentially lifting the American clear off the pillowed paradise. 

“ _What the hell-_ " Alfred gasped, immediately attempting to wriggle out of Arthur’s grasp, but Arthur smirked down at him. He had no doubt that Alfred was stronger than him, but Arthur’s own lower-body strength was considerable, and as he’d assumed, the slightly compromising position flustered Alfred to the point of incompetence. As the bespectacled idiot floundered, Arthur dragged him closer and closer to the edge of the bed, trying very hard not to think about how heavy the other man was. When Alfred’s head was off the edge, Arthur promptly dropped his wrists, watching in glee as Alfred’s lack of coordination and surprise forced him to tumble off the bed. 

“Nggk,” Alfred moaned, clutching at his head, which he had fallen on. Arthur could not find it within himself to stop smirking. 

“I win. There’s spare sheets in the closet, I’m sure.” Alfred glared up at him, and Arthur laughed, leaning down to pat Alfred’s thigh. He pushed himself back up, falling into the pillows as carelessly as Alfred had.

He was breathing heavily, but he felt great. He was still grinning. Perhaps he’d really just been in need of some physical activity, even if it was in the form of dragging Alfred’s mass off a bed. All this brooding and moody hand wringing really needed to cease.

“I can’t believe you did that.” To Arthur’s great pleasure, Alfred sounded agitated. Good. Arthur was tired of being the lone sane man amongst a group of people determined to annoy him to death. 

“You underestimated me, hm?” 

“I won’t make that mistake again.” Arthur heard shuffling, and his grin faded slightly. He turned to see that Alfred had indeed gotten up, and was straightening out his tight shirt over his hips. He was still glaring at Arthur. “I’m not sure you realize this, but I can lift you right off of there and shove you out the window. With the reception you got today, I’m not sure anyone would mind.”

Yes, Alfred did look strong enough to man-handle Arthur in any way he wanted…

“We can share, if you want,” Arthur said quickly, gambling on a new tactic, “But I’m terribly clingy. Everyone has told me so. I’ll probably squeeze the life out of your arms, or something. It would be so uncomfortable for you.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Why would it be uncomfortable for me?” 

Arthur’s thoughts flashed back to their rushed groping session a week ago, and Alfred’s panicked expression once it was over. “In my experience, straight blokes are not inclined to expressions of affection from other men.” 

At his proclamation, Alfred flushed red. Still, his glare did not abate and he crossed his arms stiffly. “You let me be the judge of my own discomfort, okay?” 

Arthur gulped. The truth was, it was not a lie that he was a clingy sleeper. Francis had often shoved him off, exasperated, and moved to sleep on a coach because Arthur found it appropriate to cuddle in one-hundred degree weather. The few times Arthur had shared a bed with his eldest brother, Alastair, had also ended with Arthur awkwardly sprawled across Alastair’s chest, drooling excessively on his neck. It was a completely subconscious habit that he could not control. 

“I really am serious,” Arthur said keenly, pleading expression fixed firmly on his face. To his building distress, Alfred did not seem moved. “I’m like an octopus. I’ll hold on for dear life.”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Alfred rolled his eyes, “And neither are you. We’re going to be adults about this, alright?”

“Adults?!” Arthur hissed, the elated feeling he’d got from lifting Alfred dissipating completely, “Who was talking about farting at the bloody airport? And changing a Facebook status?” 

Frustratingly, Alfred lost the annoyed expression that had been on his face. He was lightly smiling again, and Arthur had the urge to kick at him. Seeing Alfred miserable had been so amusing, and now Arthur would not even get that! 

“I’m going to bed,” Alfred said with finality. “Might take a shower first, actually. Need the bathroom?” 

And he left Arthur fuming, clutching at his pillows, feeling very much like he did not win that night’s exchange after all. 

\--------------

Several hours later, Arthur opened his eyes blearily and did his best to restrain a yawn. Despite his grogginess, his brain immediately went into overdrive, analysing his location and the details of his circumstances. 

It was clearly still nighttime, as their room was shrouded in darkness. The alarm clock across the room shone brightly proclaiming that it was three am. He shifted slightly, and was completely unsurprised that he had not managed to keep his hands to himself. 

He was on Alfred’s side of the bed, likely almost shoving the American off the edge (again). He’d wrapped an arm around Alfred’s taut stomach, holding him closely to his own chest and, embarrassingly, pressing his groin against Alfred’s arse. He almost groaned in mortification, but his sleepiness prevented him from doing so. The American’s back was warm, which was nice, considering he’d hogged most of the duvet.

Arthur hummed lazily. On one hand, he was spooning Alfred and it was awkward and if his ‘partner’ woke up, he’d likely beat Arthur to a pulp. Not to mention, Arthur made a terrible big spoon, being smaller in size, which had the unfortunate side-effect of having his face shoved into Alfred’s shoulder-blades (clearly, his body’s priorities were groin-arse positioning over breathing properly). 

On the other hand, Alfred was warm and Arthur had warned him of the consequences. Besides, it felt...pleasant. Probably because Arthur hadn’t had so much bodily-contact with another person for several months, let alone an attractive person. He sighed deeply, only slightly ashamed of himself, and ran his hand up Alfred’s stomach and onto his chest reverently. He almost moaned aloud when Alfred shifted backwards and pressed his back and arse closer into Arthur’s personal space. Arthur subconsciously thrust his hips forward, relishing the curve of the American’s backside, before he was forcefully pulled back into complete consciousness, and therefore, finally awake enough to process what he was doing. He immediately shoved himself off of Alfred, cheeks ablaze, and turned around on the bed, praying the American did not wake up for any of that. 

_No wonder straight men are scared to sleep around you, you poofter, when you go and molest them in their sleep!_ Arthur scolded himself frantically. His face was still burning, and now he _did_ feel very ashamed of himself. He resolved to be nicer to Alfred in the future - the younger man may have been an arsehole, but Arthur had behaved very badly tonight.

_I’ll have to apologize…_ he thought, and buried his face into the pillows. He’d never hated his body more than in this moment. _Why_ had Alfred just not slept on the bloody floor?!

Deciding to be the one to sleep on the floor later, Arthur found the adrenaline fleeing quite quickly and a strong desire to sleep replacing it. He was knocked out again in several minutes, oblivious to his companion shuffling awake, turning to look at him, and sighing in something that may or may not have been disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I am going to shove every single stupid trope into this fic and I refuse to feel shame over it. 
> 
> Also, I am aware the pacing is rather fast. But I, like Arthur, am a simple person with very few literary needs.
> 
> ALSO, expect a Christmas fic, yay! Should I continue something I'm already writing, or start something new...

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I starting yet another story, when I have three others to finish? Because I am the worst. Love me.


End file.
